After Falling
by ItsaMetaphor221B
Summary: After Sherlock takes the fall, he is no more. He is a new man with a new name, new look, new profession, and a new life. But he still remembers his life with John; it has more than corrupted him, and he will never let John go. (Sherlock POV)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first fan fiction, be gentle with me. I wrote this because I am obsessed with** _Sherlock_**. Also, I got bored and decided to whip this up. I am not sure if I will elaborate on the story, it is partly up to you, partly up to your comments, and partly up to my schedule. I do know it is a bit late in the year to be writing this, as Series 3 will be coming soon, but deal, okay. Now, we read.**

_**- S. K. Regan**_

* * *

_Sher…Sherlock, H- He's dead._

_I…... O….. U_

_A fraud_

_Take my hand._

_3 Bullets. 3 Gunmen. 3 Victims._

_Don't think for one second, that I am one of them._

_No, no you're not. You're just like me._

_This is my note._

_Sherlock!_

_For me. Don't. Be. Dead. _

11 months since _the fall_. I am broken, the life of Sherlock Holmes is over, whether I can bring it back, I hope I can. Because I think I miss John, I feel collapsed without him, no, I feel worse. I don't know what I feel, honestly, and it infuriates me, I hate not knowing, I hate not being able to understand.

I cannot say life is dull. Sure, it isn't the life I want; I want to be solving crimes with John. But I am occupied; Mycroft's cameras keep me busy. If I can't be with John, then I can watch him.

When I am not watching him through screens, I trail him. It is hard though, not to run out of my hiding place and tell him I am alive. I want to so badly. I can't though, if I did he would die, along with Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I follow him every where, just to see what he is up to. If there is a place I can't go, then I check the cameras; anything, just to be near him, to know that he's okay.

* * *

Of course he isn't okay. Even I can see that. He isn't fine, like he tells anyone with the arrogance to ask. In a way it almost makes me feel better. I don't want him to be hurting like this, I want him to be happy. It just lifts me up a bit more to know it isn't just me feeling this way, whatever/however I am feeling. Being me though, I can tell from every detail, he is not okay.

_Lonely._

_Depressed._

_Angry._

_Nightmares Returned._

_Lost._

_Not sleeping well._

_Limping again._

_Guilty._

That is what I see. I did that, it was selfish, but I couldn't let him die.

* * *

Of course, as much as I hate to admit it, I am grateful that Mycroft has given me use of the cameras. He feels bad; I don't know what for, which is irritating, but he wouldn't tell me when I asked. John is mad at him; I know this because Mycroft had tried to contact him. When John finally answered it wasn't pretty; John came over and they got into a huge argument, I still don't what about. Needless to say, it ended with Mycroft's nose broken.

Mycroft won't just let me hide; he made me get a whole new identity: name, job, look, everything. My name is Peter Smith, I hate it, and I have cut my hair shorter, I wear lightly colored clothing, sweaters and ties. According to Mycroft, if I stay away from dark clothing I am less recognizable. I now hold a position at a university as an etymologist professor, studying bees.

Mycroft isn't happy about my chosen profession. It is at the same university John now works at: as an on campus doctor and a teacher. But I like it that way; I can keep a better eye on him.

* * *

Moriarty is dead, there's no denying that. But his people are still out there, and they are watching, to make sure. Mycroft is working to get rid of them; he is failing miserably though. Moriarty's second in command, Colonel Moran, is now head of the organization. He isn't as smart, or creative, in fact he's an idiot. Not in the general sense though, he really isn't bright, not by a long shot. He makes up for it in brutality. Moriarty would use his mind to manipulate situations, yes, he is the cause of many deaths, but he did it cleanly, he caused emotional torture. Moran is different, he causes physical pain. The thing is he won't simply kill someone; he will torture them, keep them alive until he gets what he wants. I could handle him hurting me, I wouldn't care if he did that, but if he got John, I don't know what I would do then.

That is why I can't tell John. If I'd let Moriarty kill John, it would simply be a shot to the head. If I let Moran get a hold of him, it would be so much worse. Even Sherlock couldn't handle that; I am no longer him.

* * *

**A/N: So how was it? Should I go on with the story or make it a one-shot? I have ideas, but I am not sure, so I would deeply appreciate a comment on whether or not I should. Also, I am an American writer so if I make any mistake using (UK)English please correct me.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Dialogue! Thank you **Rainydays-and-Daydreams** and **Ballykissangel** for actually reviewing my story, I do very much appreciate it. As for the rest of you, stop being lazy and review my story. I don't care what it says (as long as it is appropriate). Review! Please. And for those of you who think the case thing I have going on in here is to easy, well keep in mind, that is the point. Now, we read (and hopefully review when we are done). **

_**- S. K. Regan**_

* * *

I go on to John's blog, he doesn't write anything on it anymore, but I like to read over our former cases. I like to see his perspective of the world, it is so different from mine, but so different from everyone else's as well. I like that about him. I go on the blog, preparing to look at the Baskerville case and find a new entry. John posted? I read it.

_He was my best friend, and I will always believe in him._

At this moment in time, not smiling is impossible. John still believes in me. I didn't actually expect him to spread the word: _Sherlock is a fake_. I didn't expect him to completely believe it, but this was unexpected. John has so much faith in me, too much.

_I was his best friend. *smile*_

_He still believes in me *smile* _

Instantly, I go to email him. I have to thank him for believing in me. Pulling up the tab, I enter his email address and type: _Thank you for believing in me. _

_You can't do that._

_Yes, I can._

_No, you cannot do this._

_He deserves to be thanked. He deserves to know._

_If you tell him, he will die. _

_John needs to know._

_John needs to live._

"Mycroft!" He was always around, always listening, always spying. I knew he would be watching, so there was no point in getting up to find him. All I needed to do was call his name. "Yes, brother," he answers, always listening.

"Let me help." I demand.

"We have been through this before, Sher-" He pathetically retaliates.

"Watch yourself, brother. My name isn't Sherlock anymore, remember."

"Legally, no, it isn't. But you are still my brother, born to the name of Sherlock Holmes Your name is Sherlock, Sherlock."

"Can't tell John that, can I?" I scoff.

"Sherlock, it isn't my fau-. Sherlock, I can't let you help, it would be a danger to your life."

"Since when have you cared about my well-being? You have to let me help, please."

With that, and some more debate, I won. He let me in on everything, and even offered use of his men. I declined of course; I work better alone, or with John.

* * *

"Who are you?" The idiot in front of me questioned.

Take a nice long look, see if you can figure it out," I spat. I had been taking down the organization from the bottom up for a few weeks now. It was a dull, easy, and impossibly slow process, I had only taken out about a twentieth of Moran and his newly inherited organization, but it was something. I couldn't work too fast, even with the tasks being so simple I had to tread slowly. Moran would figure out something was wrong if I worked too quickly. Right now, I was working on a lower level drug gang. Getting rid of this gang wouldn't do much, but they would be gone and the leader should have contacts with the more powerful authorities. The person I was dealing with was the leader of this particular gang. He was an exceptional idiot.

"You're Sherlock Holmes! You are fuc-"

"Took you long enough. Now, you know what I want, give it to me."

"What? I don't know what you want, I don't have anything."

"Do they get more idiotic than you? I want the contacts. Give them to me and maybe with some hard work and dedication you can move up to moron status."

He stops playing innocent, and starts to rebel, "I'm not giving you anything. How do you know who I am, and why are so confident I will give you anything?"

"How do I know who are," I scoff, "You are not the first one I have approached this way, why you are so self-involved to think so, no one knows. I got information, on your gang. You choose to reside in a safe area. Therefore, not many will own, let alone be carrying guns around here, but you are. Only a rebellious teenager would be expected out at this late hour and you are obviously not one. So who are you, the drug lord living in the area? If that wasn't enough, look at your clothes, all black, you don't want to be seen. Any sensible person living here who happened to be out this late would not wear black. They would be sure to wear something light-colored or reflective, ensuring safety from cars when crossing the street. You don't want to be seen, along with the cautious look on your face, you are trained to be careful, but you aren't. You are so overly confident you didn't give a second thought to me following you for twenty minutes. What is the point of a gun if you aren't going to use it?"

The look on his face was priceless, I always did have fun showing off, no matter how simplistic the situation. I hit him in the jaw, knocking him out. I then injected a needle into his arm, he couldn't remember any of this. Searching him, I find a phone. It is password protected; not for long. I scroll through it and find what I am looking for: contacts, of a higher force. I then take out another phone, from my pocket this time, and call Lestrade. He doesn't know I am alive, but when I do jobs like this I must have someone to get the people I have taken out.

I try to alter my voice as much as possible, and when Lestrade picks up, state an address. He comes, picks up whoever happens to be knocked out, and puts them behind bars. The first time I did this he was confused but within seconds got the message. Now he awaits my calls patiently; I sometimes wonder if he speculates it being me. I think he does, but he never says a word.

* * *

I follow John down the street; he seems to be heading to a pub a few blocks away. He looks tired though, Lestrade, most likely, pressured him into coming, so he probably isn't looking forward to it. Then he turns off course, confusing me. He stops at a flora shop, and buys white chrysanthemums. He is mourning the death of someone.

_Who died...? Oh._

_It has been exactly a year now. He is visiting me._

He is visiting the grave of the man I once used to be. The fact that he still mourns means I meant something to him and that I still do. But this will make his suffering worse, it can't help him and it won't. He enters the cemetery. Entering seems to drop the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looks terrible, worse than he looked before. His left hand starts to tremor, his shoulders slump, and his face twists in the pain of loss and memory. His pace starts to slow; John is hesitating, but moves forward none the less.

When he reaches my grave, he looks like he is on the verge of collapse. The toll this has taken on him, walking from the cemetery entrance to the foot of my grave, it is remarkable. It is also because of me. I watch John, as he stands there, mulling. It hurts to watch him hurting like this; it is worse to know that his pain is my fault. Because I didn't see what was going on, because I didn't stop it.

I want to erase his pain now, to run up to John and tell him I am living, to see a smile on his face, sarcasm in his attitude, life in his demeanor. But I stay selfish, so I can cope with the situation, so I am not in his place mulling over a grave. John gains speech, puts down the flowers and starts.

"Happy anniversary, Sherlock"

_Happy anniv- ….. What is he doing?_

"Why Sherlock? Why did you jump? Why did you leave me?"

A shiver runs through me, followed with gut wrenching guilt.

"We could have found a way around the problem."

_No, we couldn't._

"You didn't have to jump."

_Yes, I did._

"Don't you know what this has done to me? Don't you care, Sherlock? Why? I miss you, Sherlock, I love you."

_He isn't paying his respects, this isn't how that happens. This is self-torture; John is torturing himself… Because of me, because of my 'death', because I took the fall. _

John stays a while longer, his head in his hands, broken he seems. After he collects himself, he stiffens and walks away. I watch him until I can see him no longer, and then I wait a moment, to be sure he is gone. When the moment ends, when no one is near, when I am sure he is gone I break. I don't break too much, just a crack, but a crack can change a lot. I move towards the grave, towards the flowers John had left for me.

_John left me flowers; he left me flowers. Why would he leave me flowers? He wished me a 'happy anniversary'; on the anniversary of my- Sherlock Holmes' 'death' he wished me a 'happy anniversary._

_He wished the grave a 'happy anniversary'._

_It was directed towards me._

_Towards your former identity. _

_It is twisted. It is pain. He said he misses me. He said he loves me._

I collapse; on the ground, on my grave I pull the flowers to me, enclosing them in my arms. I begin to shake; I hate myself for it but I cannot control it. Emotion floods over, and, under, and through me. I don't recognize most of the emotions; I do not know how to handle them. I don't know what to do, nor do I know what to think, so I don't. Instead of thinking, instead of doing anything reasonable, I simply stay there. I stay there, sitting on the top of my grave, where six feet below lays an empty casket; the casket John opened up his heart to. I speak, "I do care, John. And I am so sorry. I miss you to. I…."

* * *

**A/N: I know, sorry. But I just can't let you go on. I am kidding. But I just cannot let him admit to that right now. Also, I am actually moving this story over from a previous account (it was only at chapter 3), but I am trying not to upload all three at once. Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Read, and for the love of the T.A.R.D.I.S review!**

**- ****_S. K. Regan_**

* * *

Finally, I have some good contacts. I have just finished chipping away more of the organization; Lestrade was on his way and I was heading off, not wanting to be seen. Lestrade had finally asked the one question I was falsely hoping he wouldn't. He asked who I was, more specifically, he asked if I was Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. It was inevitable that he would ask at some point, I just didn't expect it now; he had been doing so well, just doing as he was told. Of course, I knew he was wondering, it was obvious by the tone of his voice, but he wasn't asking. When he did ask, I didn't know what to say; I could never say yes, they were most certainly recording every call I made, I couldn't, can't, have anyone in the police force knowing I am alive. Their knowledge of my current state would get into the press and John would be taken.

I simply ended the conversation by hanging up the phone. That would be an obvious 'yes' to Lestrade, but nothing would get to the press. Also, I have contacts. These are good contacts, if I take down one particular contact on this list, then I can put a massive dent in the organization. Moran's power would become wounded.

I set out, that is exactly what I will do. Though, this might be a bit more complicated. I can't just track this person down, force information out of them, and call Lestrade. This one should be more careful, and have better places to hide information than a cell phone.

I look at the contact, this person isn't a minor drug lord, or gang member like most. Then again, this person is more important, this one has a different purpose. His name is Adam Worth, he is 31 and seems to be the new right hand man. I heard of him before when tracking some others, they spoke of him highly but were unfortunately to low on the scale to have any contact information on him. I had been looking for his information specifically ever since. Apart from him, I didn't actually know who to look for, though the more important people did tend to be starred.

I text him, from the phone I had recently acquired, making sure let him know it wasn't from the phones previous owner.

**You should consider monitoring who you give your contact information. We need to meet somewhere, your choice.**

**SH**

I send it, hoping for a quick response. I want to know who he is, what he does. Information from him would almost destroy the organization. I would be able to penetrate the organization and bring it down; I could go back to John.

**Very well then, Paton St. in one hour.**

**AW**

* * *

I arrived thirty minutes early, I was only told Paton street and didn't know exactly where he would turn up, if he ever would. I needed to know my surroundings, where I could escape if necessary, and how to stop him from getting away if he tried.

Two escape routes each for eleven possible scenarios, I count thirty minutes later; I am not done counting but a car pulls up next to me. At first I think Mycroft is trying to pick me up, I get out my phone to tell him I that I am not about get in the car. My croft had tried that on me before and I never gave in, I wasn't about to now. Then I remember, Mycroft usually has every phone within a two-mile radius ring before the car pulls up. It isn't Mycroft; It must be from Adam.

Him coming to pick me up pisses me off quite a bit, but I must act accordingly if I am to get my way. However, If I am going to cave, then I will have some fun with it. I stand outside then car waiting until the chauffeur gets out and opens the back door, inviting me in. I then get in the car, politely thanking him, hoping he caught the hint of sarcasm in my voice. He does, giving me a nasty smirk he hints at the gun in his jacket.

_He has be ordered to shoot and kill me if I try anything. Maybe I will, then._

* * *

We arrive at our destination, I see a single building standing alone on a field of bare pavement. The building was obviously a former factory, but is now closed and deteriorating. I am escorted inside by the chauffeur who drove me here. For quite a long time, we walk together in silence.

_He doesn't want me to have an escape route. He must be planning something for me. That, or he would get along well with Mycroft._

Finally, we come to a stop. He orders me around the corner and takes position, standing guard. I walk around the corner in to a small room to find a man, I assume to be Adam Worth, standing in the middle of, waiting.

"You would get along quite well with my brother, Mycroft, you know, same style." I say.

"I really don't think so, he talks a bit too much," The man replied.

_What?_

"Too bad, Adam Worth is it?" I step forward, shaking hands with him.

"Yes, it is. And you are Sherlock Holmes," He didn't say it as a question, "You're supposed to be dead."

"Well, obviously I'm not. What is you do for Moran, are you a hit man, or do you file away papers?"

"Oh, you could say both, I used to keep the information for Moriarty, Moran was his hit man, now I have taken on both. But I am not here to make a deal, Sherlock. What is it you want, though? Information? You won't be getting any."

"I came here for information, I intend on getting it. Now, business time." I needed that information. He wouldn't have it with him, but he would have it some where, and he was greedy, I could easily make an offer, he might take it. He might not.

"No, I won't be doing any business with you. You want information, you're not going to get it. Showing yourself was a stupid mistake you know, then again so was living. You could of just died, John would be safe. Or, you could have let him die, then you would be safe, but no. Now both of you will face the consequences, they'll be worse this time around" He signaled for the chauffeur, his back up and headed towards me. I need to think quick. I scan him.

_Divorced, pale ring around left ring finger. Lives near water, by the state of his shoes, simple enough. There has to be a soft spot. Not struggling for money, would like more. Greed is a possible factor, but there might be other reasons. Clothes, comfortable, but clean, not too expensive. Keys, wallet, phone, all in pocket. His gun is sticking out of his jeans, not usually there. He doesn't often have a gun on him. Wrist has a watch, a poorly fashioned, handmade bracelet, and a rubber bracelet spelling out, Riverton Bank... A father._

"Please, no," I held up my hand, "You're father, of a small girl, I can make an offer."

He stops in his tracks, I hit the soft spot.

"How? Never mind, you can't make an offer, I won't take one." The mention of his daughter really broke him, "Don't hurt her."

"Why do you work for Moran?" I had to know why he worked for them in order to make a good offer.

"I needed money, for her, to raise her. I don't want this but I can't leave, she is-" That is what I need.

"I can get you out, I can provide you with money to live on, and protection from them. I just need some information. Well?"

He hesitated, unsure if I was being honest. I was, Mycroft wouldn't like it, but he would have to get over it. This would help a family, and it would help me get back to John. "Okay," He answered.

* * *

"Sherlock, I can't-"

"Mycroft, you will."

"Fine." I had called Mycroft and updated him on the recent events. He was reluctant to help out but eventually caved. He is going to find Adam Worth and his daughter a nice house, providing them with a means of living, and setting aside a generous amount of money for the girls schooling.

"Thank you," I hang up the phone and turn toward Adam. "Everything is taken care of on my end, now I need that information."

"Ah, yes, it is at my house, we will need go there."

"I will drive, give me the address and give me your gun." He doesn't question me. He hands over the gun, which I pocket, and keys, directing me out of the building.

We get outside and he points to a black, four-door, mini-van, a father's car. Getting in he puts the address into the cars navigation system. I give him a look, he turns it off and simply tells me the address.

"How much information do you have?" I ask. it took almost forty minutes to get here, and want to get done quickly, before Moran finds out, or I am introduced to Adams daughter.

"I have all the information, Moran entrusted me with everything." Adam opens the door to his house inviting me in. It is small but comfortable. Everything is neat, uncluttered. He leads me to his office, unlocking it, then going to a medium-sized, brown, finished desk, unlocks a drawer. He opens the drawer to take out a small vault. After unlocking the vault, he pulls out a computer, logging in and pulling up the information.

"Didn't want anyone getting in?" I ask.

"This is valuable stuff, you can't ever be too safe," I disagreed. He gets out a USB drive and starts to download the information. "The password is mor529634, no caps. I will give you the computer and a backup drive. Everything you need to know is on this computer. Contacts, allies, enemy's, locations, schedules, everything... Why exactly are you doing this, you got out alive, is it really all for John?"

I don't want to answer that question, but I feel I have to. He has the laptop and drive packed up in a bag. He hands it to me, still waiting patiently for my answer. I take the bag; I hesitate before I speak, "Yes." I answer his question, feeling uncomfortable an wanting to leave. "My brother's people are here now, goodbye." I rush out of the house quickly, getting out before he could say or ask anything else, and take a cab back to Mycroft's house.

* * *

_He talks a bit too much. What could that mean?_

Adam Worth said Mycroft talked too much. I don't know what he meant by it, but it has bugged me for months now. While I have occupied myself with the information Adam gave me, I cannot stop thinking about it.

_Mycroft told them something. But what there hasn't been any news about them getting information from Mycroft. It was about me, but what? He didn't tell them I was alive, John is perfectly safe. John. John is mad at Mycroft. Mycroft talks too much. He said something before the fall. He said something to Moriarty. Moriarty had my life story. Mycroft gave Moriarty my life story..._

Mycroft gave Moriarty my life story.

"Mycroft!"

* * *

**A/N: So, what did you think? There is this wonderful little box below where you can tell me. **

***nudges encouragingly* **


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